


Thrall

by cincoflex



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Deals With The Devil, F/M, Sex, True Love, loki you stud, prisoner of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6510604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your mom fixes you up . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrall

**Author's Note:**

> Could not have done with without VR_Trakowski's love and support!

Thrall

 

 _“Loki . . . do you need . . . companionship?”_ Frigga asks softly. Loki looks at her, holding her gaze as he considers both her words and the meaning behind them.

“Mother, _really_ . . . .” he chides, discomfited by the question. It is one thing to sow wild oats on boisterous adventures beyond the palace, or to indulge in the lustful opportunities offered at various feasts. Ages before, back in more innocent times he, Thor, and the others had certainly done their share of seducing and charming in Asgard. Loki knows that Frigga is well-aware of her sons’ histories in that regard. A certain degree of sensuality had always been expected, even encouraged as a rite of passage for Odin’s heirs.

 _“Oh don’t play the prude with me,”_ she rebukes him, a crooked smile of affection twisting her pretty mouth. _“You’re a prince and my son. As such you are entitled to a handmaiden for your comfort and pleasure. Given that you may be here for a very long time, you would be wise to consider your option.”_

“It’s hardly the thing to discuss with one’s mother,” he points out, trying to distract her. “Nor is it something the Allfather will agree to, anyway.”

 _“Your father cannot deny you your birthright,”_ Frigga replies firmly. _“The matter falls under my jurisdiction anyway, and I’m sure you realize how much that will irritate him.”_

Loki slowly smiles. “And here I thought _I_ was the mischief-maker.” 

_“You are, but I love you nonetheless. Think the matter over and give me your answer when next we meet. My son . . . .”_ The hologram of Frigga gives a last melancholy smile and fades, leaving Loki standing alone once more in his cell. He takes a breath, lifts his chin and paces away, still haughty. Still proud. 

A handmaiden . . . ridiculous. Loki reaches for the thick volume lying open on the little table.

*** *** *** 

“Mother . . .”

_“Not yet? Very well. I will tell her you’re still considering matters.”_

“Wait, she’s already chosen? You already have a woman in mind?” Loki splutters.

His mother arches an eyebrow and changes the subject, a small smile on her lips, her image shimmering.

*** *** *** 

“About . . . your offer . . ."

_“Ah yes. Tonight, from midnight until an hour before sunrise. If matters go well, good. If not, then we can consider . . . another candidate.”_

“That’s . . . quick,” Loki murmurs, not altogether sure now, but pleased too. “Who is she?”

 _“Someone who owes me her allegiance,”_ Frigga tells him. _“Do not question it, Loki. Magic I have in abundance; patience less so.”_

“So someone _obligated_ to you. I’m not sure I want that,” he murmurs.

 _“At this point you don’t have much choice,”_ his mother replies. _“This girl is neither your slave or property Loki; she is mine until her trespass is remitted.”_

“A criminal; this grows better and better,” Loki teases, his curiosity piqued. “What was her offense? Did she insult the Allfather’s beard? Or poison his ravens?”

Frigga smiles. _“I doubt she will choose to tell you. Expect her tonight, a little after midnight, when the walls here are shuttered. I wish you a pleasant night, Loki.”_

There isn’t a reply he can make; a first for the son with the silver tongue.

*** *** *** 

The dungeons are a far cry from the common concept. Asgard is ruthlessly humane with their accommodations; something Odin resents in his case, but Loki knows his current situation is far better than it would be in other realms. True it’s galling to be on display like a zoo animal during the waking hours, his every move observable to the other prisoners and the guards, but at night the force barriers darken and lighting drops to a reasonable amount of darkness. The night affords all of them a few hours of dignified privacy. In theory this is supposed to encourage rational behavior, but Loki has never been one to follow the righteous path, and often spends as much time awake in the dark as asleep in the day.

Still, he waits, sensing the appointed hour is near. Loki has tried to figure out how his thrall will visit—will the barrier be interrupted for a moment? Is there a guard who will be privy to the arrangement? His primary interest is in escaping of course, to exploit this opportunity as best he can. Loki knows his mother expects this—no one else knows him so well—but Frigga is brilliant too. If he can figure this puzzle out, then his escape cannot be blamed on her, and that is the best part of all.

He lies on the bed and idly tosses the cup with one hand, his repetitive action of boredom. Up, catch. Up, catch, up—

The cup stays up, and waggles in the air. Loki sits up, reaching for it, but the cup darts back. “Hey!”

Gently the cup floats to the table and sets itself there. Loki climbs off the bed and stalks over to it, passing a long hand over and around it suspiciously. Loki senses a presence now, and turns quickly, staring. “I know you’re here,” he rumbles. “Show yourself.”

“Nnnnnnno,” comes the soft reply. “I am forbidden to do so, my lord.”

His brows draw together and Loki tries to focus on the location of the words. “Why?”

“Because it is the wish of my mistress and for your own protection,” the soft answer is tinged with a little impatience.

“Then how do I know you’re even real?” Loki scoffs. As the words leave his mouth he feels something take his right hand and guide it forward, pressing it against a warm full mound. Instinctively his fingers curve to cup the breast it now holds, and he swipes a thumb over the stiffened nipple. “Ahhhh,” he manages to hide most of his surprise.

“Real enough?” the voice asks, a little breathlessly.

“Delightfully so,” Loki purrs back, sweeping his free arm around her and scooping the unseen woman closer. She’s warm and solid notwithstanding her invisibility, and his body responds to the heft of her against him. Despite his interest in escape, there are matters of greater importance now. He feels her breath against his chin. “Marvelous.”

“Shhhh,” comes her murmur, and Loki feels her hands move to his shoulders. “What is your wish, prince?”

“Oh I think it’s making itself . . . apparent,” he replies. She tenses slightly and to help her relax, Loki adds, “What’s your name, maid of the dark?”

“Sásse,” she replies, her tone still distracted, mostly because the hand not toying with her breast is pressed to the small of her back.

“Well then, this _shall_ be interesting. I’ve never before bedded a woman I couldn’t see. Can you see me?”

“Y-yes,” Sásse tells him, “but then I’ve seen you before, too.”  
“Mmmm,” Loki murmurs, and adds, “Kiss me.”

It’s easier to have her do it than aim for her mouth and miss it, he figures. His other senses are coming into play, and as Loki feels her kiss, he closes his eyes, all the better to savor them.

She is warm and her mouth is sweet; when Loki slides his tongue against the seam of her lips they open to his with a little gratifying sigh. Arousal surges through him; it’s been a long time since last he indulged himself with fleshly pleasures, although he’d started early enough. Loki remembers having to explain such matters to Thor, and laughing at his brother’s clumsy questions and heated blushes back when they were in the first stirrings of their young manhood.

Thor might have been first in battle, but Loki had been first in beds. Many beds at that.

Still, the urgency of needy desire brings him back to the form in his arms, and he nips at her lips, feeling her arms tighten around him. Good, he knows. Whoever this maiden is, she hungers for him as well, and that helps matters considerably. She plays her mouth against his own, mixing shy kisses with wetter, bolder ones, whetting Loki’s lust with her tongue.

More kisses, and as his hands slide across her rounded ass, exploring skin he cannot see, Loki realizes that Sásse is nude. The very boldness of this makes him throb, and he runs his mouth along the side of her face, guiding her back towards the bed. It’s small; barely room enough for the two of them, but she pulls him down, fumbling with his leggings, warm hands very sure of their intent.

The first time is crazed and messy; full of heat and slickness and rumpled bedclothes. Loki suspects they may have cracked the headboard, although he can’t tell in the darkness, and although he’s not sure if Sásse has achieved any pleasure, by the Nine Realms, _he_ certainly has. As it is, Loki’s comfortable lying between her damp thighs, his weight mostly on his forearms.

She’s under him; he can feel her even if he can’t see her. When Loki slips a hand behind her head he spots it and knows that the seiđr keeping this woman unseen is unusually strong. “Are you awake? It’s difficult to tell,” he murmurs, grinning.

“I’m awake,” comes her reply. “Oof, you’re not a _small_ god, are you?”

He laughs. “My brother may have a hammer, but _I_ have a staff,” Loki admits.

“You do indeed,” Sásse agrees, and he hears a wince in her voice.

Chagrined, Loki shifts himself to one side of her, reaching for a dry part of the sheet and gently wiping her clean. “This . . . coupling was a bit . . . chaotic. I’m capable of far _better_ , I assure you.”

“Oh I know,” Sásse replies, “I’ve heard tell.”

This is a bit worrisome, and Loki wonders who she’s spoken to. He thinks back to his last assignation and realizes he’s not sure how long ago it was, or even who it was with. Apparently his expression is enough to make her laugh, and he feels her hand reach up to stroke his chin. 

“Reputations linger, yours in this regard is well-earned,” she tells him.

Loki nods at this compliment, half-smiling, tucking away his curiosity for the moment. “Perhaps I can even improve it.”

“I suspect you shall,” Sásse agrees, and he feels the hand move down his chest in a lingering fashion. For a while they say nothing, and he touches her as well, concentrating on what his hands are telling him.

Muscled but curvy; possibly a warrior. Loki feels her shiver when his fingers play against her unseen skin, gliding along her ribs to the ticklish point at her armpit. A further glide up her shoulder to her neck . . . and he feels the collar there. 

“I take it this is . . . _not_ a necklace,” Loki murmurs.

Sásse says nothing.

He runs his fingers along it, feeling the coolness of metal, the braided pattern of little goose feathers there: his mother’s sacred animal. “Is this how she brings you here?” Loki asks conversationally.

It takes Sásse a moment to answer, but her words are light. “No. I do not know _how_ the queen moves me; her seiđr is the strongest in the Nine Realms.”

Her hands are touching him again, encircling his re-awakening shaft, each stroke maddeningly slow. Sásse’s touch is a lovely distraction; Loki wavers on whether to keep asking questions or to simply give in to her caresses. Both options are interesting . . . and then her fingers twist slickly and Loki groans.

Decision made.

It’s strange to look down at his engorged shaft, to feel hands caressing it without actually seeing them. Very erotic, Loki thinks, this voyeuristic pleasure. If the light was brighter he might feel self-conscious, but the dimness gives him freedom to groan, and counter-thrust against the sweet pressure of Sásse’s fingers.

But he’s not ready to spill again, despite the heat, so after long minutes of heady bliss, Loki reaches for her wrists, catching them lightly and making her pause in her stroke.

“Not enjoying this?” she asks, a note of uncertainty in her voice.

“Oh I am,” Loki assures her. “Very much, but surely _you_ deserve a bit of attention as well.” He shifts, slithering his hands to her torso, stroking Sásse’s hips and getting a sense of her form. Loki enjoys the challenge of it; trying to picture her navel, the carved bone of her hips and the silky curls nestled between them. Delicately he runs a palm across the fluff of her sex, aroused by the softness there. “A fair meadow in this valley,” he purrs to her.

“Tell me, do you charm birds from the sky and fish from the sea with that silver tongue?” Sásse murmurs.

“Oh it’s good for more than _that_ ,” Loki chuckles, and presses his open mouth down on the thicket. Of course Sásse wriggles, but he nuzzles her curls again, breathing in the scent of her mingled with his; sea and stone, minerals and musk and magic. It’s an intoxicating perfume, and Loki feels a hint of possessiveness in knowing his own essence is a part of her at the moment.

He has no issue with the messier aspects of intimacy, not at all. Females have long fascinated Loki, and he’s taken the time to explore what he can about them, including their bodies. Their curves and scents, their enticing flavors. And _this_ woman, by the Gods, is putting a renewed hunger in him. Loki flicks his tongue along the seam of her sex, sliding it through the curls and against the hot, wet flesh there.

She shudders, hands curling through his hair. “Uhhhh . . .”

A promising response, and Loki slides his hands along the insides of her thighs, lightly nudging them open. “Shhhhh, allow me . . .” he lets his warm breath brush over her damp skin. Gently he begins to kiss, leaving wet trails along the ticklish crease of each thigh, working his way to the sweet heat of her vulva. Loki wishes he could see it, but certainly scent, touch and taste are more than enough to stiffen his prick again.

Slow licks intermingled with flicks and nibbles, shifting pressure . . . Loki knows what he _wants_ to do, but there is something about this woman that is bewitching his control, and he finds himself unable to focus on anything except what makes her shiver and gasp. Blindly, gently, Loki feasts on her, curling his hands around the curves of her ass as he does so, moaning himself.

When Sásse’s thighs tense and her nails began to rake his scalp he slows his caresses, aware of how slick his face and chin are. Loki hears her panting, and more alarmingly, a soft little sob. He lifts his face up, catching one of her hands and pulling it to his mouth to kiss it before speaking. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-n-n-no!” she laughs wetly. “Oh you have far sur _passed_ your reputation, son of Frigga! I have _never_ felt, that is, never like _that_ \--!”

Her words, so earnest and embarrassed, do odd things to his chest, and Loki draws a shuddery breath. His own arousal throbs painfully now, pressed hard against the mattress, but he gently strokes Sásse’s hips as he pushes himself up. “You are . . . delicious,” he confesses, returning honesty for honesty. “Like hot mead; intoxicating.”

He feels her reach for him. “My prince . . .” 

Loki slides into her arms and shifts; he’s strong enough to pull her over him on the narrow bed, and once there, Sásse straddles his hips, guiding his shaft into her. He rocks up, into that glazed cleft and the welcoming heat is so slick and tight that it’s all he can do not to howl.

They find a steady rhythm in the darkness, two bodies locked together in passion. Loki catches her waist, pulls her down for a blind kiss, aware that his stamina is close to an end. He feels the long soft locks of Sásse’s hair tumble around his face as his tongue circles hers, and then the moment of weightless bliss flares through him, raw pleasure scorching him in sultry pulses as once again he comes.

*** *** *** 

He knows the moment when she vanishes. Sásse’s weight, draped over him has helped him fall asleep. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she is gone, the comforting heat of her skin but a memory. Loki pats the bedding, wanders his cell knowing she is gone, but stubbornly persisting until finally he makes his way back to the empty bed. The sheets still hold a faint scent of her, and he curls up tightly, waiting for the morning.

*** *** ***

“Who IS she?” Loki demands, aware that he’s blushing. 

Frigga’s projection gives him a faint but uncooperative smile. _“She is satisfactory, I take it?”_

“Why am I not permitted to see her?” He demands peevishly. “Is she hideous?”

 _“Yes,”_ his mother tells him blandly. _“She’s half-dwarf, half-giant, with tusks and bristles up her spine like a boar. For Asgard’s sake, Loki, **really**?”_

They stare at each other for a beat, and then Loki drops his gaze.

“She’s . . . acceptable,” he grumbles, still feeling heat radiating off his face. “I’m just . . . not in the habit of not being able to see my . . . companions.”

 _“It’s for the safety of both of you,”_ Frigga reminds him. _“If you cannot identify her, then the Allfather cannot dismiss or punish her further.”_

“So lying with me is a _punishment_?” Loki accuses, turning on this phrase with fresh acid. He’s not sure why he’s so touchy and angry at the moment, especially since physically he feels much better. More rested, as it were.

 _“No,_ ” his mother’s image patiently replies, her small smile looking tired now. _“You know it’s not. My little thrall has lost her home, her freedom and her status. Given her crime, Odin could do much worse to her.”_

“And what, precisely _was_ her crime?” Loki demands. “That might be a good starting point.”

 _“Enough,”_ his mother tells him. _“She will visit one night a week, the same arrangement as before. Should you prefer she not visit, simply tell me beforehand. This is not merely an arrangement for **you** , my son; there are other destinies at stake here.”_

“Destiny,” Loki scoffs, “Destiny is no friend of mine.”

*** *** ***

“What was your crime?” he asks, months later. They are entwined and cooling, both flushed—he can feel the heat from her skin—and sated.

“It was stupid,” Sásse finally grumbles. “You will laugh at me, my prince.”

“I shall not,” Loki promises, smirking. “Think of _my_ crimes; who am I to judge?”

“That’s true,” she replies. “Few of us in Asgard can compare to you.”

“Ouch! I suppose I deserved that,” Loki admits, half-laughing. “Tell me, little handmaid, what foul wrongdoing put you into my mother’s hands?” He reaches to stroke her stomach, enjoying the feel of her skin.

“I . . . stole,” she murmurs. “From a goddess.”

“My mother?”

“No. I₫unn. I stole one of her Apples.”

“Oh,” he replies. This is definitely a high crime, and enough to warrant death. The fact that Sásse is still alive speaks much to his mother’s intervention. “Well that _was_ daring. How did you do it?”

“What, so you can do it yourself?” she replies, her tone slightly arch. Loki slides his hand to cup one of her breasts, toying lightly with it, pleased when her nipple pebbles up.

“No, I’ve no interest in stealing what we of the Æsir are freely given. I’m just curious how you managed it. I₫unn is . . . watchful.”

“I changed myself into a squirrel and rooted through her eski as quickly as I could. Unfortunately I wasn’t quick enough, and Lord Heimdall saw me. I was to be taken before the Allfather, but your mother intervened. Why are we speaking of this anyway?”

“Because I wanted to know. Now that I understand what a terrible criminal you are I can appreciate you all the more,” Loki teases her, shifting his hand down her torso until it cups the fur between her legs. 

She doesn’t laugh, and Loki pauses. He wishes he could see Sásse’s expression; even after all these months it’s difficult not to be able to gauge her mood that way. “Sweet one . . .”

“You think it’s funny. You would; you’re a god by birth,” comes her troubled reply as she pushes his hand away. “If you’d stolen one of the Apples everyone would laugh and think it a great jest on I₫unn. But for me, who never intended to steal, let alone devour one . . .”

“You _ate_ the Apple?” Loki gapes for a moment. This is a portent indeed; his handmaid is infused now with immortality. A goddess by fate.

“I panicked!” she blurts. “When Lord Heimdall shouted at me with his scary voice I stuffed it into my mouth! I would have choked on it if I hadn’t become human again,” Sásse sulks. “Everyone laughed.”

Loki tries hard not to laugh himself; instead he leans down and presses his mouth to her chest, nibbling his way along the slopes there. He loves the way she sighs, the way her hands come up to caress his head.

When she’s soothed, he raises his face to kiss the lovely hollow at her throat. “I would _not_ have laughed. Well, not much,” he amends. “It was a daring deed. Why would you want an Apple? For the immortality?”

“No,” Sásse sighs. “I needed the seeds for . . . barter.”

“The seeds would be worth much,” Loki agrees, intrigued. His maid has depths to her, and although he’s enjoyed her agreeable nature, this strange tale is showing a darker side.

He likes it. “What were you bartering for?”

“You must _know_ , mustn’t you? You will nag at me until you know the _whole_ story, right?”

“How well you know me,” Loki gloats, even as he pulls her closer, draping a long leg over hers. 

Sásse sighs hugely, and strokes his hair. She seems very fond of it, toying with the long locks, and Loki enjoys her touch.

“I was going to trade them for an enchanted bearskin. And before you ask why I needed that, I’ll tell you that my magic is . . . small. Very small compared to yours or that of your mother. For where I needed to go, the bearskin would allow me to pass in safety. So an Apple’s seeds for an enchanted bearskin that would let me go to the middle of Vanaheimr.”

This is unexpected. Loki ponders this a while as he burrows his face in the crook of her sweet neck. He licks, experimentally, feeling Sásse shiver. “What is of _any_ interest in the middle of Vanaheimr? It’s rough and wild and utterly boring.”

She hesitates; he feels her flinch slightly. Moving slowly, Loki stretches himself out on her, keeping his weight braced, but pinning her down nonetheless. “Sásse?”

“Fine. In the middle of Vanaheimr is a deep stone well and at the bottom of the well was Theoric, my betrothed. He’d gotten himself in debt to one of Hogun’s guards and the only way he’d ever be released is if I brought the scrying mirror I’d inherited from my mother. Except because I was caught stealing an Apple, I couldn’t go to Vanaheimr, I couldn’t trade the mirror for him and I was given your mother’s collar instead,” she told him flatly. “There. You know it _all_ , my prince.”

“Your _betrothed_?” Loki manages, feeling a rise of anger now. Unfortunately it arouses him as well. Under him, he feels her wriggle a bit, which doesn’t help.

“Sorry, my _former_ betrothed. He denounced me and took back all my bride price when I was taken before your mother as well as demanding my mother’s mirror as compensation. He _also_ accused me of using my witchcraft to drive him into making bad bets and forcing him to lose his money. Last I heard he married my sister.”

Loki lets loose an oath, feeling a wave of hate for the unknown Theoric. He catches Sásse’s mouth, nipping her bottom lip with teeth, his words a growl. “I _never_ want to hear his name again.”

“Neither do _I_ ,” she snarls back, her kisses hard and wet.

Loki catches one of her thighs and pushes it up, pushes himself deeply into Sásse. It’s rough and furious, but she matches his mood, raking his back, her teeth nipping his shoulders as he drives himself into her, pounding hard. They curse and sweat, more animal than anything else and dimly Loki’s aware that the bed is beginning to move across the cell floor, but he’s too caught up in the savage sweetness of claiming his handmaid to care. When Sásse wraps her legs around his hips and demands he make her scream, he does.

*** *** *** 

And then comes the Convergence.

Loki remembers it all: the Kursed, the battle.

His mother.

Her death.

Oh Gods, her death. His stupid words that undoubtedly helped cause it. If there is anything in the Nine Realms he could take back, it would be _those words._

He fights them all: the Dark Elves, the monsters, Thor, his own mad bitterness. And in all the time Loki spends running, fighting, cursing and killing, a tiny fragment of his heart holds a name close.

As he lies dying in Thor’s arms, he thinks of his mother.

And his handmaid.

*** *** ***

If one combines a slightly altered soul forge into the bed of the Allfather, then Odinsleep becomes its own prison, Loki discovers.

*** *** ***

His illusions have gained strength; Heimdall sees nothing amiss. Loki is caught between delight at his own cunning, and annoyance that there is no-one to admire it. He sends Thor on his way, feeling an exasperated sense of affection for his oaf of a brother, and after a while, Loki makes his way slowly to his mother’s apartments.

No one stops him; Odin’s form permits him entry anywhere, and the city is respectful of their king’s grief. Loki stands in the center of the room, aware that although it’s been cleaned and straightened, the echoes of violence still hang in the air.

Voices grow stronger; a group of women come from another door, three of them. They carry buckets and brooms; all of them wear the gold collars of thralls. When they see him, they fluster, bowing awkwardly.

Loki looks at them, feeling a strange sense of urgency. One is his handmaid, he knows it. But which?

“All of you,” he rasps, attempting to sound like Odin, “You all are thralls of my late queen?”

They nod. Loki wishes they’d speak, but they’re terrified of course. It doesn’t help that they’re all about the same height. He moves closer, looking at them with more intensity. Are these lips he has kissed? Ears he has nibbled?

The nearest woman tenses a little. “Um, your Highness . . .”

Wrong voice. Loki shakes his head and gives her a bland smile. “You. You are freed. Go your way, woman.”

With a little gasp, the woman blinks. Loki reaches a hand to her collar and lets his touch dissolve it. She drops down to the deepest bow she can and darts away, leaving her bucket behind.

It’s amusing, and Loki grins.

The other two look slightly more terrified but Loki notices that one of them has . . . red eyes.

One has been crying lately.

Loki looks at the other girl. “Do you wish your freedom as well?”

She nods. Impatient, Loki barks, “Speak up!”

“Yes, your highness,” the girl squeaks, her thick accent straight out of the high hills of Asgard. “I want that very much.”

“Done.” Loki snaps. “Go.” A flick to her collar as well and she’s tripping over the buckets, her skirts floundering as she tries not to fall in her dash from the room.

The last girl stands straight, and Loki feels her terror. It’s Sásse. It _must_ be her, and he feasts his gaze as he circles her.

Skin tinged with a hint of copper. Dark hair tinted with copper. Freckles. Freckles! Loki feels giddy. He looks into her face, feeling a surge of impishness.

“Why have you been crying?”

“Your son has . . . died,” she whispers and that voice, yes, by all the Gods it’s the same voice he’s heard for nearly a year. Loki fights his grin as he realizes what her words mean.

“Loki?” he puts as much contempt into his name as possible. “Loki?”

“H-he was a prince of Asgard,” she stubbornly points out. “And our queen loved him truly. I weep for him on her behalf.”

Oh this is almost more than he can bear. Loki makes the Allfather’s face scowl. “Loki is not worthy of your tears, handmaid.”

“Yes he is!” she blurts defensively, lifting her gaze to reveal deep brown eyes. “He . . . what did you say?” Sásse pales, and shakes a little.

“Sásse,” he murmurs, and allows his shape to shift into his own.

She slaps him. Then she faints.

Carefully Loki carries her to the nearest surface; a padded bench near one of the alcoves. She regains her senses and tries to slap him again. “You!”

“That’s hardly the way to treat your ruler and your liege now, is it?” Loki chides, grinning broadly. “By the bifrost you’re beautiful.”

“Bastard,” Sásse mutters. “Leaving me to think you’d DIED! And so soon after Frigga. You are _heartless_ , Loki!”

“Yes,” he agrees. “It’s with you. It’s yours.”

She glares at him, but it softens, especially when he catches her chin and lifts it.

“Your kisses mean more to me than the Nine Realms,” he tells her before dropping his mouth on hers.

When they both can breathe again, she gives herself a little shake. “Oh that’s well and good, but you’re . . . well you’re pretending to be the Allfather, and I’m bound to this palace until freed or death.”

“Have you ever seen the rise of the three moons of Hwer?” Loki asks her. “I think we shall go there to be married. And after that I will give you the fifteen rubies and twenty-six opals I’ve acquired from unwise dwarves, and the key to the palace under the Vashtal cliffs.”

She looks at him. “And my bride-price?”

“Oh yes,” Loki smiles. “I haven’t forgotten. Apparently your brother –in-law has been doused in Bilgesnipe love potion and your sister has lost all her teeth and hair.”

“I love you,” she beams. “Oh, and my name isn’t Sásse.”

He laughs. “I know . . . Sigyn.”

end


End file.
